Corporate Peon

Thursday, March 31, 2005

The thoughts, they're spinning and bumping into each other. They're colliding and running all over the place, never staying still long enough to become something coherent. The body, it itches, but the mind...the mind is lost.

I wonder sometimes if all the pot I smoked in high school caused any lasting damage. I wonder if the pipe hits in a closed car, on a winter's night, converted good brain cells to evil; if the drunken binges were more than just a teenager's overdoing it.

Good times, friends, good times.

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